Show Me Love
by INeedSiriusHelp
Summary: He's everything she wants. She has one thing he wants. And Tom Marvolo Riddle will stop at nothing to take it from her. -inspired by Odno I to Zhe t.A.T.u/Rammstein-
1. Mysterious Riddle

_A/N: Hey guys, Sirius here! Thanks for dropping by. This story idea just kind of unfolded in my head not too long ago, and I really wanted to get it down and out -- so here it is! Well, so far, anyway. I know it's a bit slow to start, but it'll pick up soon enough. Please remember to review! I appreciate any and all feedback :D (I mean it.) (And sorry if there are spelling/grammar errors. I was a bit lazy in revising this ^_^; )_

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the original characters. The genius who does is J.K. Rowling.

Twilight was fast approaching. The narrow, dark path of Knockturn Alley was already trapped in shadows. The dimming light at its mouth which led to Diagon Alley feebly illuminated the dusty shops on the very end. A few shoppers still crept through Knockturn, but none of them looked at one another. An old hunchbacked crone stood outside a tiny book shop. She muttered to herself in a foreign language which no passerby could decipher, and she cackled to herself wickedly when the bell above the bookshop's door rattled. A greasy, shifty-eyed man exited with an armful of dusty tomes. She crowed, "Mr. Borgin would do well to remember to pay for what he takes!"

The man, Mr. Borgin, cast a disgusted glance over at the woman, and scowled, "You will find the coins on the counter, _madam._"

As he walked down the alley, she cried after him, "I was not referring to my lovely books, Mr. Borgin!" With another cackle, she pulled open the door to her shop and shuffled inside. Borgin ignored her comment and merely rolled his eyes. Borgin and Burke were known as a notoriously stingy pair, even among the rest of the greedy shopkeeps in Knockturn Alley. Borgin had certainly swindled many; he was sly as a fox when it came to making the most of a sale or purchase. Some may have called it evil and selfish; he called it business. He, personally, did not feel that the old crone had any room to give lessons in morality especially considering the enormous price tag on her ancient books. If Borgin hadn't needed them so badly, he would have laughed at her for thinking people would actually buy anything from her store.

As he opened the door to his own shop, Borgin and Burkes, he could not help but to feel slightly unsettled. Ever since he had hired another set of hands in the form of young Tom Riddle, the crone had been yelling such pieces of advice to him with increasing frequency. Most were cryptic, which he ignored, but lately he'd been getting an odd feeling about Riddle, and felt that he should be more careful about him.

Riddle was at the counter talking to a rather young witch. Her face was covered in several layers of thick, dark makeup, and her wild red hair was pulled back into an untamed bun at the nape of her neck. Judging by her deep purple robes of silk, she came from a wealthy pureblood family. Her voice was low and sultry as she leaned over the counter to talk to Riddle, who looked as polite and impassive as ever. A trained smile lifted his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. The expression made the girl sigh dreamily, and she murmured, "How much is it again, Tom?"

"Twenty-nine Galleons and seven Sickles," Riddle replied, reaching a hand out to her breast. Borgin would have said he was being unnecessarily frisky, but Tom was fingering a silver chain around the girl's neck which held a slender locket in the shape of a crescent moon. But Tom leaned a bit closer and said in a lower voice still, "But for such an excellent customer, I'll sell it for twenty-nine even."

Borgin smirked. The boy did have a knack for sales. Not only did his good looks attract an alarming number of witches, but he was charming enough to keep them coming back for more, and not to mention rob them blind. As long as he remained charming, cordial, and stole their galleons with a smile, the swooning customers would buy anything for any price. This girl, for example, had just bought a locket that a fair seller would have sold to her for a small handful of gold, but not Borgin, nor Burke, nor Riddle. The red-haired witch upturned her purse upon the counter, and with a silkly smile, said, "Why thank you, Tom." She took three Galleons from the pile and pushed the rest towards Riddle. "Twenty-nine even."

Riddle scooped up the coins and stowed them in the register. He flashed her another smile, and she returned it with a real smile. Her lustful eyes looked him up and down, and she tilted her head slightly to the side, muttering, "And how much would an evening with you be worth?"

Borgin, who was leafing through a book entitled _A Collection of Curses Most Deadly_, looked up to see Riddle's reaction. With the fairly attractive young woman, any other young man would have given her a positive answer without a shadow of a doubt, but Riddle? No, Riddle was not like any other young man. His expression did not change in the slightest as he said softly, "I'm afraid to inform you, Miss McLean, pursuing a relationship with you would be impossible."

The witch did not look deterred. She leaned against the counter again, pressing closer to Riddle, as she whispered, "Oh, come on, Tom... Don't you want some more... _feminine_ company?"

Riddle's voice took on a bit of an icy edge as he looked down at her. "I'm terribly sorry, but the shop is closed, Miss McLean. You would do well to hasten home before predators seeking fresh blood..." at this, he reached out to her once again, this time fastening the silver clasp that had opened her robes, and continued, "... start filling the streets."

Miss McLean appeared frozen for a moment. When she managed to shake it off, she sighed dejectedly. "Oh, fine. Have it your way. " She turned and swept out of the shop, but she stopped at the door. "I'll win you over one of these days, Tom, you make my words!"

When she was gone, Borgin allowed himself a chuckle. The sound made Tom look over at him. His face, which was so often blank, had a touch of anger etched into it. "Is there a joke that I did not hear, Mr. Borgin?"

Borgin shook his head, closing the books and carrying them to the back of the shop. "You're an odd duck, Riddle. Very odd indeed."

It was comments like these that Borgin never tired of making because of the way they incensed Riddle so. However, now that he had been regarding Riddle with a bit of suspicion lately, his typical accusatory reaction unsettled Borgin more than it usually would.

"What exactly is so odd about me?" he demanded, then added a strained, "_Sir?_"

The books fell into a neat stack on Borgin's desk. He turned to Riddle with a bit of a smirk still on his face, and said with an air of mocking nonchalance, "Everything about you is odd. You're young, intelligent, clever, attractive -- your professors raved about you, your classmates admired you -- there are no doors that were not open for you. And yet, you came here, to this shop. This shady shop of Dark artifacts in a dark alley with a notorious reputation for attracting the 'wrong crowd.' You're obviously not here because no other place would take you, and you most certainly do not enjoy serving -- or rather entertaining -- customers."

Riddle did not deny any of this, he merely stared at Borgin. The older man, in return, held his gaze, though he was ashamed to admit that he felt as if he should be looking at the ground instead to avoid Riddle's eyes. Riddle appeared to be waiting for Borgin to elaborate, to explain why it was so incredulous for a promising youth to work in a Dark Arts shop. Neiter man said anything, only staring at each other; Borgin, calculating; Riddle, demanding.

When several quiet, uncomfortable minutes had passed, Borgin muttered, "What are you really doing here, Tom Riddle?"

The sound of the front door opening broke another heavy silence. Without a response, or even a second glance, Tom spun on his heel and went to man the counter again. Borgin stared after the youth, and let out a sigh of relief once he was out of sight and earshot. Borgin was shocked to find himself feeling weak in the knees with a cold sweat on his forehead. He quickly mopped it away, and he gave himself a shake. What was he doing, letting the boy get to him like this? But, Borgin felt it deep inside of him, he felt it the moment Tom Marvolo Riddle walked into the shop and asked for work.

Tom Riddle was the most dangerous wizard Borgin had ever had the misfortune to meet.


	2. The Girl

_A/N: Hey again, everyone :D So, here's the second chapter. Woohoo! Okay, there's a fair bit of information in this chapter, and some of this will probably have you saying "Wtf?" before you're done. But, please, bear with me for now! I bet most of your questions will be answered in coming chapters ;)_

_Warnings: Spoilers for those who haven't read at least up to HBP._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the characters except for the OC's. Other than them, literary genius J.K. Rowling owns 'em all.  
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The following day, Tom was, as usual, the first to arrive at Borgin and Burkes. Dawn was just breaking, the chilly autumn mist floating around Knockturn Alley. He extracted a slender brass key from his pocket and inserted it in the keyhole. Tom had quickly learned that the door was protected by more than a mere lock; if anyone tried to open it any other way with a charm like alohomora, their extremities would feel as if they were on fire for hours. Borgin and Burke were too greedy to allow slack security for their merchandise, and any fool who tried to rob them would feel incredibly sorry afterwards. The two men found it highly amusing when they saw Tom's eyes light up as they told him this.

The young man entered the room and was greeted by the usual shrunken heads, yellowing bones, and cursed talismans. He found none of this repulsive, but simply irritating clutter. Despite their magical properties, if Tom had his way, he would have gotten rid of them all. Dismembered body parts were not particularly interesting, nor rare or powerful; all he wanted to see in Borgin and Burkes was nothing less than the rarest, most dangerous Dark artifacts.

But, the whole reason Tom had chosen Borgin and Burkes was because the place was the prime source for ancient objects. Special objects. Objects that Tom desired above all. He was a collector, and he wanted to expand his collection here. His desire to find them increased tenfold when Borgin told him about Slytherin's locket.

Despite the fact that Merope -- he did not ever think of her as his "mother" -- had been conned out of the locket, Tom did not pity her. Merope Gaunt had never been his interest, because she was weak enough to allow herself to die. However, his powerful lineage had interested him. The locket that had belonged to the Gaunts interested him. Because he was now the only living descendant aside from that mad fool Morfin, Slytherin's locket rightfully belonged to Tom.

When he asked if the locket was still in the shop, Borgin actually burst out laughing. It had been sold years ago for a great deal more than it had been sold. But Borgin's face turned strange when Tom asked whom it had been sold to. Borgin insisted that he didn't remember, that he sold lots of precious objects to lots of avid collectors, but Tom did not believe him. He could always tell by a man's eyes when he was lying. Tom himself was proud of the way he could intimidate a man with nothing more than a look and Borgin was not a strong man. When Tom had muttered, "Are you sure you don't remember, Mr. Borgin?" it was more of a rhetorical question. He knew the answer. Borgin knew the answer. But Borgin refused to tell him. So Tom had dropped the subject... for the time being. At least until he was sure Borgin did not suspect him anymore. Then he would corner Borgin, and Tom would use his remarkable Legilimancy to find out the truth. After wiping his memory, Tom would hunt down the locket for himself.

The shop was cold as usual. The counter was like ice as Tom leaned upon it, and resumed his usual early-morning ritual of examining the supply of cursed jewelry under the glass of the countertop. There were three newly acquired pieces as a set of tarnished bronze. There were earrings in the shape of gnarled crows feet, a crudely cut bangle with an ancient inscription etched into it, and a necklace featuring a crow in flight. Unless the necklace was gold with an emerald S on it, it held to interest for Tom.

With a bored sort of yawn, he sat back in the hard wooden chair at the counter and observed the early morning shoppers wandering about, not that there were many. Most came under the cover of night, though it was not uncommon for a few odd warlocks to drop in to a shop once in a while as it opened. Tom checked his watch. It was ten past six. Borgin should be in soon.

Sure enough, barely a minute later, the door opened and Borgin entered. Tom inclined his head and said, "Hello, Mr. Borgin."

Borgin nodded in greeting to Tom, and hurried off to the back room. Tom noticed there was a letter clutched in his hand. There was a ripping sound in the back room, and after a moment's silence, Borgin called, "Riddle, I've got another job for you! I think you'll enjoy this one."

Tom slid out of the chair silently and joined Borgin in back. Borgin turned to the youth. A smirk carved its way to his face. "You're to visit this address." He handed him a note card with a name and address on it. Tom scanned it once, and then looked up at Borgin. "What am I asking Lady Rowan for?"

Borgin took Tom by the shoulder and steered him into the shop again, and gestured for him to sit down. Borgin studied him across the counter, and said, "I know what you want, Tom."

"What would that be, sir?"

"That locket. I've never seen a hungrier look in anyone's eyes. You want to get your hands on Slytherin's locket, don't you?"

Tom said nothing. So Borgin hadn't forgotten, despite the months that had passed.

"Well, boy, now you're going to get a chance. And if I know you, I'd say you should have the locket around your own neck soon enough if you play your cards right."

Tom tried to appear indifferent, but inside, he was burning with excitement. Borgin certainly was serious about this. He was not tricking Tom into going off on a wild goose chase. Tom knew when someone was lying... but Borgin, for a change, was telling the truth. Tom, impatient, replied, "But I'm not going to Lady Rowan to ask for the locket."

Borgin nodded. "Correct. Lady Rowan belongs to a family that does quite a lot of business with us. It so happens that her sister purchased your beloved locket. Greedy as she is, she's giving it to her niece -- Lady Rowan's daughter -- as a coming-of-age gift. While you're visiting, you're to be bargaining for her set of goblin-made crowns. If you act as you usually do with your customers, she'll be putty in your hands and will most certainly allow you to glimpse the locket. If you can get her to show it to you, I know you'll be crafty enough to get out with my crowns and the locket."

Enticing as this sounded, Tom was suspicious of Borgin's motives. "If I walk out of there with the locket, I get to keep it." There was an air of finality to his statement, leaving no room for objection. Borgin looked unsettled, but nodded a moment later and said, "Yes... of course."

And that was that. Without another word, Tom pulled on his travelling cloak, walked out into the alley, and Disapparated.

The address he arrived at was rather similar to the alley he had just left. The street was admittedly wider than Knockturn Alley, and he was facing a sloping drive leading to a large, white mansion rather than the shop of Dark artifacts, but the air was the same. Tendrils of mist still floated about, and the sky was the same shade of steel gray, threatening to rain. Tom made his way up the cobbled drive until he came to an iron wrought gate. As he approached, the doors swung open. A house-elf with a cream colored tea-towel for a loin cloth appeared and sank into a deep bow. "My master and mistress expect you, Mr. Riddle, sir."

The creature walked ahead of Tom as he took long strides up the drive, but he ignored the elf completely until it opened the door for him. Even afterwards, he walked right past it when it started to inform him that the mistress was in the sitting room.

Tom had no patience for vermin like house-elves. When he turned the corner, he found a hardwood floor with lavish plum rugs and drapes. The walls were white, but everything from the flames on the chandelier to the crystal goblets on the ebony mantel were some shade of purple. Beside the largest window stood a woman, who at first glance appeared to be wearing lilac robes. By the dim light filtering in the crack in the drapes, it seemed that the dress was white, but appeared tinged purple by the light and color of the rest of the room. She was a willowy woman with an elegant bun holding her dark hair together. Her skin was olive and her face severe. She had large dark eyes that travelled up and down Tom's equally tall frame. She appeared quite surprised by him, and her severe face softened for a moment.

"You must be Mr. Riddle. When Borgin said he'd be sending someone else to do the arrangements... Well, I assumed you were much older..." She trailed off as Tom walked over, took her hand in his, and pressed his lips to her palm.

"Lady Rowan. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Lady Rowan took a moment to respond. "The pleasure is mine."

As Tom slowly straightened, he stared into her eyes. She mimicked him. She seemed the type of person with a level head on her shoulders, though now she was slightly flustered and was inwardly struggling to figure him out.

Finally, she tore her eyes away and said, "Shall we get straight to business, then?"

"Of course," Tom replied politely.

Lady Rowan called, "Tulo!"

With a crack, the house-elf appeared in the room. He bowed to Lady Rowan, who instructed him, "Bring me the crown and tiara."

Two more cracks. The house-elf presented two velvet cushions of royal purple floating in midair. Upon the first sat a fantastic crown of gold. It was inlaid with walnut-sized sapphires and glimmering pearls. The second was a great deal smaller, but just as magnificent. It was a tiara made of thin, tightly woven golden vines. The vines were tightest in the center, but on the surface, it grew looser and looser, until hair-like strands of gold were all that supported the tiara. Threaded into the vines were yet more sapphires and pearls.

Lady Rowan watched Tom intently as he appraised the two items. His interest was mild. He turned back to her and explained, "Mr. Borgin would like to pay two hundred Galleons for the pair."

At this, the woman was aghast. However charming Tom may have been, she became furious at this. "For the pair? I wouldn't sell the tiara for less than four hundred and fifty!"

"When you sent the picture to Mr. Borgin, he and Mr. Burke discovered that, despite the excellent care the artifacts have been given, three of the sapphires on the crown have been replaced. The newer ones are more roughly-cut than the original goblin-manufactured ones. In the tiara, the filigree has been broken twice. Though it is easily fixed, it will not be in the same mint condition as it was when it was sold by the goblins."

Lady Rowan looked indignant. "What utter rubbish! That scoundrel, Borgin! He knows as well as I, my great-grandfather bought the set, and there has not been so much as a lost pearl!" Then, she peered up at Tom, and her face turned rather worried. She quickly insisted, "I mean nothing against you, Mr. Riddle, I'm sure you are only acting on Borgin's behalf."

Tom inclined his head. He explained sincerely, "It's alright, Lady. It's not a problem. I'm quite aware that I would have been robbing you for the price they asked, and I regret that it was necessary for me to state their asking price first. If you'd like, I could arrange an agreeable amount for them with you now."

Whatever reaction Lady Rowan had expected, it was not that. She bit her lower lip. "Why... that would be wonderful, thank you."

The house-elf was ordered to bring refreshments. Leaving the crowns suspended in the middle of the room, it scurried off and was back moments later with a silver tray towering with sandwiches and sweets which were set on the round table between the armchairs Tom and the woman sat on.

"What would you like to drink, Mr. Riddle?" Lady Rowan asked as she offered the tray to Tom.

"A cup of tea will be fine."

A steaming tea cup appeared beside him. Tom took a sip from it. Lady Rowan seemed slightly surprised. "No cream? No sugar?"

"I prefer mine black," Tom replied.

Lady Rowan watched the dark amber liquid pass his lips as she stirred cream into her own coffee. When Tom had set his cup back upon the saucer, Lady Rowan commented softly, "You are quite young to be working at a place like Borgin and Burkes."

Tom merely nodded. "I enjoy the work. The artifacts intrigue me."

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen, Lady."

"My, my," she murmured after nearly choking on her coffee. "Were you a Hogwarts student?"

From this point onward, Lady Rowan seemed utterly disinterested in the crowns and entirely focused on Tom, who he was and where he had come from. Tom, annoyed at her badgering, endured it only because he knew what he would gain in the end. He certainly had roused a deal of pity and admiration for him. His being an orphan, being scouted for Hogwarts, rising to the top of his classes with ease...

Then, the door to the sitting room opened. Three girls appeared, varying in age. The oldest was older than Tom, perhaps in her mid twenties. The middle was in her around the same age as the first, though shorter. The youngest looked about sixteen. This had to be the niece who had received the locket from her aunt. She, without realizing the company in the room, hurried forward. "Mother," she called, "have you heard from-- oh!"

She gave a tiny gasp of surprise, quickly bringing her hands to her mouth. The girl wore a white dress that ended just below her knees, and its tight waist made her slender frame seem even thinner. She was not wearing any gold, and certainly not Slytherin's locket. Perhaps she thought that Tom was staring at her chest, rather than looking for a necklace, because her face turned scarlet.

Lady Rowan said, "Mr. Riddle, these are my daughters. You'll see Lucy and Jezebel there, and this is my youngest daughter, Abigail." Then she turned to her daughters. "This is Mr. Riddle. He's the new contact between us, and Mr. Borgin and Burke."

At once, the two older girls curtsied, their faces a bit flushed as well, as they chorused, "Welcome, Mr. Riddle." The youngest was much more flustered. Tom had not taken her eyes off of her since she walked in the room. He was still hoping that the violently purple room was merely off-setting his vision, but no matter how long he studied the girl, no sign of a locket appeared.

He rose to his feet, and walked over to her until there was barely an inch of space between them. Staring into her eyes all the while, he took her small hand in his, and kissed it tenderly, his lips lingering longer than usual. She looked as if she were about to faint. Tom whispered, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rowan."

"It-It-It's lovely t-t-to meet you, t-too, Mr. R-R-Riddle," she stammered faintly.

The older daughters hurried over to their sister's side, their eyes wide and smiles huge, obviously expecting the same greeting. Tom bowed low to them both, not looking at either of them as he had at Abigail. Despite that, they both looked love-struck. The middle daughter, Lucy, giggled.

Lady Rowan came to their side, and placed her hands on Abigail's thin shoulders. "Lucy and Jezebel are both betrothed, but it's Abigail here that hasn't been yet."

Tom's eyes flickered to Abigail again. "The best of luck finding a suitor, Miss Rowan."

Lady Rowan nodded and squeezed the girl tighter. "You see, we're hoping to have a husband for her when she comes of age."

When she comes of age. Tom's face hardened as he rounded on Lady Rowan. She appeared to be quite startled when he said, "I was told all of your daughters were of age."

To this, none of them had anything to say. Tom cleared his expression immediately, and explained more calmly, "I apologize. Mr. Borgin had said that they were all of age, and that was the impression I was under."

Lady Rowan seemed to forgive him for the outburst, and said, "Mr. Borgin was nearly right. Abigail turns seventeen on the thirty-first of December."

Upon hearing the date, Tom had to work to control himself so that he did not say anything else he'd later regret. "I see," was all he uttered.

The chiming of the grandfather clock alerted them all of the time. Despite the fact that Tom had arrived not long ago, he turned to Lady Rowan and said with a polite bow, "I'm afraid I've spent too much time here, and I'm expected back at the shop. I shall come back soon, however, to discuss the price of the crowns."

Lady Rowan was surprised but understood. "I will send an owl to Mr. Borgin when I have an open evening."

The two older girls, despite what their mother had said about them both being betrothed, gave Tom giggly farewells. Abigail hung back, gazing at Tom but saying nothing. Lady Rowan waved to him as he left, and called, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Riddle! Until next time!"

He turned back to the door, where Lady Rowan was once again holding her youngest girl in front of her in an obvious attempt to show her off to Tom. But Tom did not need her to be paraded in front of him to have his attention drawn to her. He stared into her eyes once again as he murmured back, "Until next time." Her face, heat rising to her cheeks once again, was the last thing he saw before, with a crack, he found himself outside of Borgin and Burkes.

_A/N: -shifty eyes- IMPERIO! I command you to leave a review! :3_

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	3. A Plan

_A/N: :D Hey everyone! Well, here's chapter three. Hope you all enjoy it, and please remember to REVIEW! I'll give you candy if you do ;D_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter... or Draco Malfoy or the Weasley twins... (dammit ;-; ) J.K. Rowling owns it all, the lucky woman :P _

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_Needless to say, when Tom arrived back at the shop, he was outraged. He stormed up to Borgin in a calm fury. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were flashing and burning. Borgin looked up at him, his brow creasing. He didn't fancy the look on Tom's face. Judging by his lack of goblin-made goods, the bargain had not gone as planned.

Tom scowled, "You said that the girl was given the locket as a coming-of-age present."

The shifty-eyed man replied, "That is what I was told by Miss Hepzibah Smith, Lady Rowan's sister--"

"The girl hasn't even come of age yet," Tom informed him.

"Then Miss Smith must have said she was going to give it to her. Why is that a problem, Tom? And where are my crow--"

"Don't change the subject," Tom snapped. "You knew she didn't have it yet. You just sent me there so you and Burke could have a laugh, wondering which daughter would throw herself at my feet first."

Borgin took a moment to compose himself. His forehead had begun to sweat. Tom did not lift his penetrating gaze.

"Alright, so we thought that would be amusing, but what does it matter? I told you what I knew. And you have a useful piece of information: the location of the locket. Besides, since it would be pointless to ask whether the family liked you, you will undoubtedly be invited back to their home--"

"The locket," Riddle interrupted the babbling, "is in the possession of Miss Smith." It was a statement, not a question, but Borgin nodded anyway. "You never said you sold it to Miss Smith."

Borgin looked uncomfortable. "Well... that is... I didn't remember... Not until I got the letter saying she was passing it on..." Tom's glare did not make his tongue any looser, so Borgin chose to stop talking altogether.

Tom had served Smith many times before and was infuriated that he never suspected her of having the locket. Surely such an obsessive collector would want the locket. Surely he should have noticed before... Tom started to head for the door when Borgin called, "If you're planning to go to her house to find it, you might as well quit while you're ahead."

Tom shot a glare at him, but stopped to listen.

Borgin continued, "Miss Smith is on holiday. She's told no one where or for how long. And she never leaves her house unprotected. On the off-chance that she left it there, it's too heavily guarded for anyone to get in. Most likely, it's in her Gringotts vault, and you've got even less of a chance getting past the goblins."

Unfortunately, Borgin was telling the truth. Without her around, chances of attaining the locket were slim to none. Not even Tom was going to risk forcing past the goblins and many enchantments placed upon the Gringotts vaults. Even if he did successfully Imperius one of them, the rest would definitely find it suspicious that Tom was taking objects from the greedy woman's vault. And she could be vacationing anywhere. He had no chances of finding her, or getting to the locket until she came back. Suppressing an angry snarl, he turned back towards Borgin and sat in the chair behind the counter.

Borgin looked at him for a moment, waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, Borgin walked stiffly away to the books he had purchased the previous day. As he scanned through the pages of one of them absently, he spoke softly to Tom.

"You'll get it soon enough."

Tom did not spare him a glance. Instead, he plucked a femur, which most likely belonged to a very small child at one point, off the shelf beside his head and began twirling it in his hands. He watched the off-white bone spin between his fingers. Borgin did not need to elaborate, but did so anyway.

"The Rowans like you, yes?" Borgin said, and without waiting for an answer, continued, "They're purebloods, and they're proud. When the girl gets the locket, it won't be quite as easy to take it from her without the sharp-witted mother noticing. Play your cards right. I know you'll figure out some cunning plan..."

The pep-talk of sorts was unnecessary. Indeed, by the time Borgin had finished speaking, a plan had already unfolded in Tom's head. A cold smirk lifted his lips. What was that idiotic Muggle saying -- taking candy from a baby? This was essentially the same thing, only it would be much easier; the baby would cry for help, but Tom wouldn't leave the girl alive long enough to utter a sound.

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Dinner was an unusually loud affair at the Rowan household. In fact, the last two days had been nothing less than the wildest days the manor had seen since the girls were toddlers. The presence of Mr. Riddle seemed to have completely altered the atmosphere in the old house.

The reason why the girls were in their family house rather than their husband's houses (and why Abigail was at home rather than school) was because of their great aunt's funeral. They had barely known their great aunt, but Lady Rowan was exceptionally close to her and the loss had shaken her badly. She insisted that she needed her daughters at home to help her cope. Now, however, Lady Rowan did not even seem to remember that she had an aunt.

Lucy and Jezebel's husbands would certainly not be pleased if they heard the way the sisters carried on about Mr. Riddle. They exclaimed excitedly about his simple clothes, sighed dreamily over his dark eyes, squealed over his smooth, pale skin. They declared him too good to be true, but not for any of the right reasons. Rather than admit that they were several years older and married, they believed that his good-looks and undoubtedly large, hidden fortune of gold made him unattainable.

Even Lady Rowan was hung up on young Mr. Riddle, though not in the same way as her oldest daughters. Since his appearance, she had become quite strange. She ordered both of their house-elves, Tulo and Lola, to clean every nook and cranny, and exploded when she found as much as a dust bunny in the corner of the closet. She rearranged the furniture every few hours, eventually leaving it in the same position that it had been in originally. She bought the girls all new clothes and forced them into the new, fancy dresses and robes. She demanded that the wine cellar be stocked with a variety of the rarest and most desirable liquor she could get her hands on. Usually very conscious of their budget and the appropriate length of her daughters' skirts, she was indeed acting like a different person entirely.

The only person who was not outwardly affected by Mr. Riddle was Abigail. Abigail was like her late father rather than her sisters, even in appearances. Tyler Rowan was the physical opposite of his wife. He was of average height and slender build, while Lady Rowan was tall and athletic-looking for a woman in her forties. He had porcelain skin and golden hair. He was rather delicate looking in comparison to her, almost like a china doll. Lucy and Jezebel had been fortunate enough to inherit mostly maternal characteristics. Lucy resembled her the most, with the same olive-skin and night-black eyes. She, too, had thick raven hair, but she was not tall or strong like Lady Rowan. Jezebel, on the other hand, was. Though she had green eyes and wavy golden hair, she had her mother's sturdy build. Even despite her boyishness, Jezebel was as lovely as Lucy. Abigail, on the other hand, did not look like her mother at all. She the curly golden hair and green eyes of her father, and both were paler than those of Jezebel's. She was short and frail-looking, especially when compared to her sisters.

Abigail's attitude had hardly changed upon meeting Mr. Riddle. She was still just as quiet and reserved as she had been prior to meeting him. However, if anyone had bothered to use Legilimancy on her, they would see clearly that Mr. Riddle was affecting her more than anyone else.

He was all she could think about. His scent polluted her thoughts; his eyes haunted her dreams; his voice echoed in her mind. He was intoxicating, and he was all she could think about. She knew immediately that there was something different about him, something that separated him from every other person in the world. That difference could be heard in his low voice, seen in his pale face. That difference intrigued Abigail. It also scared her. But more than anything, it had drawn her in deep, so deep that she could not escape.

She nudged a few pieces of potato around her plate without interest. For the umpteenth time, she sighed and laid down her fork. The gentle clatter attracted the attention of the three other women. Of course, Lucy and Jezebel were once again making up fantastic stories about what they believed Mr. Riddle's past was like. They'd been trying to drag Abigail into their conversation, but she'd simply ignored them and tried not to blush whenever his name was mentioned to her. Lady Rowan said, "Finish up, Abby. This is the last homemade meal you'll be eating until the holidays."

Jezebel smirked. "Abs, you know that starving yourself won't make you prettier for Mr. Riddle, don't you?"

Lucy shrieked with laughter. Lady Rowan paused as she was about to lift her glass to her lips to drink, but then slowly lowered it without drinking from it. She looked over at Abigail, whose pale face had flushed.

"Shut up," she murmured.

"Look at her blush!" Lucy grinned. "Oh, you know she's wishing Mr. Riddle was doing something else with his mouth--"

"Lucy!" Abigail now looked as if she'd been hanging upside down for several hours.

"I get it, you fancy him!" Lucy prodded. "Oh, you definitely fancy him, Abigail, admit it!"

Abigail was in no position to deny it. She fumbled with her fork again, not quite knowing where to look. Lucy and Jezebel kept teasing her, and Abigail was trying her best to block them out. As if in answer to her prayers, a sudden noise distracted them all. The ominous doorbell chime had never sounded more welcoming as far as Abigail was concerned. She jumped to her feet, and called, "I'll answer it!"

Sprinting to the front door, she paused a moment, and quickly smoothed down her hair and skirt. As she exhaled, she pulled the door open. Quite suddenly, she wished she hadn't heard the doorbell at all. Standing on the porch, rain soaking his jet black hair, was the reason why her face was so flushed. She stumbled back a step and stared with wide eyes as Mr. Riddle stepped over the threshold. He bowed to her politely, and murmured, "Miss Rowan, it's a pleasure to see you again."

When she did not speak, he straightened and cocked his head to the side slightly. "Have I come at a bad time?"

"N-No!" she insisted quickly. "We-We were just in the middle of d-dinner -- but it's alright, we were f-finished anyway! Come in, p-please!"

Mr. Riddle nodded his thanks, and hung his cloak on the rack beside the door. He wore inconspicuous Muggle clothes. His shirt, tie, and slacks were shades of gray. It gave Abigail the impression that they were both in a black-and-white Muggle film. The new black dress her mother had forced her into, coupled with Abigail's own porcelain skin added to the effect.

For what seemed to be a very long time, Mr. Riddle stared at Abigail. She opened her mouth once or twice to ask if there was something wrong. But then, he reached over to her and twirled a curl that had escaped the girl's barrette. He twisted it absently between his long forefinger and thumb, murmuring, "I apologize. It's just hard to believe someone so young also seems so mature."

He tucked the curl behind her ear gently, his pale fingers lingering on her cheek. Abigail tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry.

"For heaven's _sake_, Abs, what on earth are you-- OH!"

Jezebel, who had just turned the corner, stopped dead in her tracks as soon as she saw the two by the door. Lucy ran into Jezebel from behind. She gasped, and then started giggling hysterically. "Oh -- I'm sorry, didn't mean to intrude--" Tripping over each other and gasping with laughter, the sisters disappeared from sight.

Lady Rowan took their place. She also stared at the too-intimate sight of Mr. Riddle still touching her youngest daughter's cheek. The action seemed almost deliberate, as if Mr. Riddle had been waiting for Lady Rowan to catch him in the act. He pulled his hand away and clasped both of them behind his back. He focused on her, his face apologetic. He quickly swept into a short bow, and said, "I'm terribly sorry, Lady Rowan... As promised, I'm here to discuss the arrangements for the crown and tiara set in place of Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke."

Lady Rowan seemed to recover as he spoke, and she slowly nodded. "Yes, of course. I'd forgotten that we'd planned tonight..." She clapped her hands twice, and the house-elves appeared before her. "Clean up the dining room immediately. Mr. Riddle and I have important business to discuss."

With a "Yes, madam," and a resounding crack, they disappeared. Lady Rowan's eyes which had been flickering between the two finally settled upon Abigail. The girl did not notice much of what was transpiring because her attention was almost entirely devoted to Mr. Riddle.

"Abby, dear, bring the crowns into the dining room for me," she said.

Abigail nodded fleetingly, and with a last gaze at Mr. Riddle, ran from the front hall. She stopped in the living room, her heart pounding wildly. Leaning back into the wall, she closed her eyes and touched her face, which seemed to be on fire. Despite the coldness of Mr. Riddle's fingertips, they seemed to have burned holes through her flesh, like hot coals through parchment. It took a while to calm herself down, to ignore the dark tunnels that were his eyes, that were inviting her in, to lose herself forever and ever...

Finally, she jolted to full alertness. Now was not the time to get her head stuck in the clouds. She ran off to the vault where the most prized family treasures were kept. She ran to the second floor and stopped before the large Rowan family portrait. She stood on the tips of her toes, and tapped the gold watch on her father's wrist three times. His painted face smiled at her, and the painting swung on its hinges to reveal a tiny niche in the wall. Inside it laid a silver box with a key. She extracted it walked to the end of the hall to an inconspicuous stretch of wall.

She reached out with her forefinger and traced an invisible pattern, murmuring under her breath. The area she touched began to glow in response, and the wall disappeared. A long, narrow stone passage led her to the treasury. The room was made of black marble, and was incredibly drafty. She shivered as she stepped inside the claustrophobic room, and glanced around.

Unlike most wizarding families, the Rowans kept a considerable amount of their wealth in their own home. For generations, the family had believed the house to be as well protected as Gringotts itself. The main reason for this was because no one could open the treasury unless they were a blood relative of the Rowans. The entrance to the vault had been sealed with Claudius Rowan's blood -- one of Abigail's ancestors -- and no one other than his family and descendants could get inside. There were flaws in his plan, however. Had one of Claudius's descendants turned traitor and tried to rob the family, there would be no defenses against that person.

She made her way to the corner and picked up the set sitting upon a satin cushion. The cushion slipped in her numb fingers, so she held it tighter. She glanced around. The room was filled with enough gold, silver, jewels, and precious artifacts to have quite a few families live comfortable lives with it. And yet, despite the overwhelming wealth in the room, Abigail was more overwhelmed by the room itself. The cold seemed to suck the heat from her body the deeper in she got. The black ceiling was so high that she could not see it, and the floor was so smooth and reflective, she could have been standing on a black lake. It felt as if she were being swallowed up by the darkness, as if the walls were going to close in and never let her escape, as if the dim lights from the red orbs of magical light and smooth, icy marble were going to become her coffin.

Short of breath, she stumbled as she ran to the narrow passageway once again. She was white-faced when she emerged. The passage sealed silently behind her. Tripping over her high-heeled shoes, she returned the key and ran to the dining room.

When she arrived at the doors, panting and trying to regain her composure, she heard her mother's voice and Mr. Riddle's unmistakable, sultry tone. She wanted to open the door, but she paused with her hand on the knob as she heard her name.

"Abigail is a bright girl, very book smart, but not quite so interested in the world beyond her books," Lady Rowan sighed.

"Is that so," Mr. Riddle mused.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. She's got her head in the clouds when it's not buried in a book, but she's never expressed any interest in getting out and seeing things for herself," she explained.

There was a slight tinkle of china, as if a tea cup had been placed upon a saucer. Then, "Lady Rowan, if I may... Has Abigail ever had the chance to see the world?"

She sounded surprised. "Why... I... Her father and I... while he was alive... we always talked about... touring the world... the girls and us... But Abby..."

"I've seen some of the world myself. You see, I was never interested in seeing much either until I left to find my uncle a few years ago. It wasn't the most exciting stay, but the world itself fascinated me and I wanted to see more of it. If Abigail got a taste of it herself, I'm sure she would want more, too."

There was a pause. Abigail took advantage of it, and made as much clamor as possible as she threw the door open and clacked into the room. She set the pieces on the table and turned to quickly walk away when Mr. Riddle's voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

"So, Miss Rowan," he said smoothly, as if she had been in the conversation the whole time (as if he _knew_ she'd been listening at the door), "would you like to take a tour of the world after you finish school?"

She forced herself to speak, but resolved to stay facing the door rather than meet Mr. Riddle's eyes. "I... I think it would be a great experience, but... I, er... h-hasn't that custom sort of... died out?"

"Just because it is not popular anymore does not make it any better or worse," he said.

The question burst from her lips before she could stop it. "Did you tour the world after you finished Hogwarts, Mr. Riddle?"

She turned to him as she asked. His finger was spinning around the rim of the tea cup in front of him. It was hard to tell where his hand ended and the cup began; both were pale as snow. "Not the whole world. But did travel. I was left with quite... memorable experiences."

Abigail was sure that Mr. Riddle was not saying all that needed to be said about the subject judging from the way his tone was far from cheerful. She gulped, wondering what he could have done that would give his voice the peculiar edge of malice, but was too nervous to ask. He looked up at her again, not seeming to have noticed at all that he had shaken her up a mere moment ago. "You would not regret it if you went."

She simply nodded, not knowing what else to do, and muttered, "I-I'll keep that in mind..."

Then, he turned to Lady Rowan, and said, "So, shall we get back to business?"

Lady Rowan nodded, and turned her eyes back on the pieces. She heaved a sigh, and finally said, "I will part with them for the seven hundred and thirty five, though I must say, I quite loathe to let them go for Borgin's miserly price."

"Well, Mr. Burke said he would go as high as eight hundred, if that would please you more," Mr. Riddle insisted, his brow furrowed and eyes slightly worried. Lady Rowan looked up at him, staring long and hard. Then she heaved a sigh. "Oh, alright. Burke's is hardly any better, but I suppose it'll do."

Mr. Riddle nodded, looking satisfied. "Thank you very much, Lady Rowan."

"Not at all, Mr. Riddle," she said, gesturing in an off-hand sort of way. Then she called for the house-elf Lola to bring a case for the crowns, and the pair were stored safely inside of the magically protected chest. Mr. Riddle took the large box under his arm as Lady Rowan led him to the door. Abigail followed behind uncertainly.

As Mr. Riddle threw his cloak over his shoulders, he said, "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Lady Rowan."

"Likewise. I would appreciate it very much if you would be the permanent link between Borgin and me from now on, if that would be possible," she said, sounding almost too hopeful.

"I do most of their bargaining nowadays, so I suppose it would not be impossible for me to come back again," he explained.

Abigail had not realized it, but her heart had sunk somewhere deep into her gut when she heard that the deal had been closed. If the crowns were sold, there would be no reason for Mr. Riddle to come by. She would not see him. And that thought was devastating. But now, her foolish heart seemed to have shot up into her mouth. She couldn't breathe. Mr. Riddle did most of the bargaining. He could come back. She could see him again. Her eyes rose from the carpet to his eyes, and once again, she found his staring right back at her.

Lady Rowan seemed to have disappeared from the hall. In fact, the hall itself might have disappeared and Abigail would not have noticed. The only thing that she cared about at all was Mr. Riddle. His pale face seemed so close to hers...

"I look forward to seeing you again... Miss Rowan..." he breathed.

He was long gone, but Abigail stayed rooted to the spot, his words echoing in her head.


End file.
